Dead Cheese and Pickle Sandwich

I used to be anxious about dealing a single deck
with all the cards facing down.
You said it goes away with the drink – free spirit for the boys
rooms backstage for the lady friends.
One woman always wears red, a queen of no one’s heart, suited
to the men who liked their game saucy.

You flick your wrists unfavourably, with no intention
other than to always win.
I like the patter of the cards free falling, diamonds
always a girl's best friend, when flashing sparkling bright.

People start to yawn, their smoke-filled lungs mixed cool
on the rocks of some far-flung bourbon two
fingers deep.
A cheese and pickle sandwich terminates its life,
curled dried crusts, clubbed to death.

I want to go home – long before the sun shows its face on tomorrow
but all I am doing is
digging myself a well of debt –my sweat-soaked laundry,
creased on the back of some dirty spade, heaped deep
like a cellar mans dray
with all the sad deluded losers, of the gambling game…